Over the years I've received plenty of e-mails on the importance of blogging. It's basically a cross between essays, journals and self-promotion, isn't it? It's been a long time since I've received a message telling me how I can effectively Blog for MOney! Is anyone even blogging anymore? I feel like I'm late to the party. I feel like I just opened up a MySpace account. I feel like I'm paying on a mortgage in a ghost town...
"Oh look, darling! There are some lovely tumbleweeds down here!"
Dreams: I don't know where it exactly was set, but it felt like a really nice leafy abbey, the kind of abbey one would find in England. A blue stone church was within arm's reach. The walkway I was on was shaded by trees. Twice someone reminded me that there was going to be a test that day on the book I was carrying. I paused, and then it took a second to realize I was in yet another dream where I was unprepared for an exam. A glimpse at the cover revealed it to be Lady Chatterley's Lover. I think. I don't know. It was just a dream. That's the impression I got. Next thing I know, I was in a classroom, third row back, leaning forward sitting attentively with my elbows planted firmly on my desk. The same position that in real life caused me numbness and tingling in my hands. Fucking ulnar nerve. If I was to be called on, I planned to have enough information about the story to fudge a response. I flipped through the pages only to discover that each word was written in shorthand, so as to save the reader time. The key was typed out on light pink and blue pages, pastels, and explained what each abbreviation meant. What the hell? Was I studying to be a court stenographer??
My subconscious mind is constantly reminding me that I had studied to be a physician. In the final phase of my dream, I looked up to see my next patient. A regular doctor who has been practicing for a while is surprised by nothing. The fellow was a middle-aged man without any limbs. He wore a blood-red turban with a matching tunic. He looked like a young and handsome maharishi with a solid black beard that came to a very fine point. They leaned him up against a curtained wall like a 2x4. I learned that he was having trouble sleeping. Trick question: Can you name the three main reasons why a man in this position might not be able to sleep? His case was absorbing, so I considered the neuropathic pain that comes with phantom limbs. Gabapentin is useful. Then melatonin came to mind. But then it dawned on me to think outside the box. What could affect a healthy man and keep him awake at night? The answer became clear, like deposits left by a receding tide. I looked to find a way to address this issue with his wife, and a good time for them to have some privacy.
On the way to work, I was stopped at an intersection. A mother and presumably her two daughters crossed the street, piling in with other kids into a nearby dance studio. I mean, these munchkins were tiny, so it was especially adorable to see how it took four of their little footsteps for every one of their mother's. Within these seemingly meaningless moments, we find the loveliest surprises: they were so happy and had the cutest smiles. Something about the bone structures of their faces made me jump seventy years into the future, when they would be old women. I aged them in my mind. By the time they reached the opposing sidewalk, I realized it was highly unlikely they will remember this moment in time and the thought suddenly made me a little... sad.
Mike wanted to bowl. 8 o'clock. It's a statistical near-certainty that working in the morning and then having to watch it get dark by 4PM means my ass was going to be tired. Heading out these days means having to take that nap-before-you-go-out nap. This is a conclusion based on years of experience with Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Mike told me his buddy, Jeff - a guy he met while working at Toys R' Us - would be there. Mike drove, so I was happy. When we walked in, Mike pointed off into the distance. "There he is." Jeff didn't look how I had expected. He had a dry blue-gray mustache. He wore an Indianapolis COLTS shirt, an Indianapolis COLTS jacket, and an Indianapolis COLTS baseball cap. The bill of his hat had that kind of round flatness to it, the kind of look that makes a guy look like a special needs patient. This was EAGLES country, so like most fans, we weren't sure what message he was supposed to bear, but I don't give that big of a shit about sports, and even used to live in Indiana. Indiana has a special place in my heart, if you must know, and I consider it my second home. "Oooh! Indianapolis COLTS! Does that make you a Hoosier?"
"Yes," Jeff replied. "Up until I was five. That's when I moved out here."
"Oh, well. I used to live in West Lafayette." There was a pause where I had the chance to search his face for a reaction, but it went blank. He obviously was holding on to the Colts because they reminded him of a time of happy innocence.
We got our clown shoes and noted how bowling alleys used to take your footwear, but I guess the attendants weren't too keen on dealing with all those strangers. Foot fungus in your palms never looks good. So at this point you're thinking this bowling alley sucks. As unlikely as it may sound, you're not the first. Chances are you're exactly like me, as you tackle such questions as: Why does this place look so new and clean? How come these people are fit and attractive? And how come they don't serve any beer? Are we making a colossal mistake by bowling without any beer??
Sending Mike out to get some pitchers was a confusing time in his life. Before walking up and down the whole length of the bowling alley, make sure to examine all the tables in the joint. See how nobody is drinking any beer? That probably means there is no beer.
"We playing more than two games?" Jeff asked. "No, way," Mike blurted. That's when I remembered two games was plenty. Especially when there's no beer. The last time I bowled, I left with a gooey-sore arm, busted knuckles in my right tossing hand, and a left hip that threatened to give out on small flights of stairs.
"When's the last time you played?" Mike said last year. Jeff said last week. I hadn't played in over a decade. "Jeff, you're all warmed up. You're gonna' slaughter us!"
Thing is, Jeff was terrible.
I won the first round at 120, with Mike coming in a close second at 105, and Jeff down around 78. Mike beat us the next time at 133, with me at 125 and Jeff at 61. His first five frames were all zeros. I kept things light when he got a gutter ball by doing my Maxwell Smart impersonation: While pinching my thumb and pointer finger together, I burbled, "Missed it by this much!" One time Mike got all but one pin, and Jeff sang, "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do!" Mike missed again in a few other sets and I said, "Ya' missed by the hair of yer' chinny chin chin!"
Fitting, since he has a beard.
After we dropped Jeff off, Mike asked me what I thought.
"He's nice guy. But I think he's a little on the spectrum."
Every day we judge people on scales that barely ever register. Jeff has been fired from every job he's ever had. He's really smart in some areas, but in the basement in other areas that average people excel at. These facts may seem small, but they all added up in Mike's head.
"I never thought about it, but I think you're right."
"Beer?"
"Yeah, sure. We can go to Applebee's... if you want."
(*sighs)
"Okay."
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